He woke up with an unfamiliar word on his lips and the uncomfortable chill of frozen air rushing across his skin; his heart pounding in his chest.
Voldemort.
He blinked his eyes open and stared at the obscured, stone ceiling. He could hear his dormmates breathing softly, but he saw nothing. There was nothing to see; it was too dark. His mouth formed the word again.
Voldemort.
What did it mean? What was this odd thought that had appeared in his mind? Nothing relevant, he was sure. It was the middle of the night, and his mind always had been such an interesting place—coming up with new ways to entertain itself in this ever-dulling environment.
(One would think this new, fantastical world of magic wouldn't ever become boring—wouldn't ever lose its shine—but no. Wizards and witches were just like the muggles. They were weak and filthy both of tongue and mind, their talents and gifts wasted on inane projects and irresponsible revenges. It was disgusting, watching them squander what had the potential to do so much more.)
Voldemort.
Vol de mort.
Oh. He felt a brief moment of clarity through his weary mind. It wasn't a word. Rather, a phrase. French.
Death's flight.
English didn't quite do it justice, he decided, but it made a terrifying mental image all the same. It sparked up memories that were too recent, too vivid, not to horrify. It was not difficult to picture just what exactly this phrase was supposed to invoke.
(He had heard the cry of the ominous sirens more times than he had ever wished to. His eyes had followed the spirals of the dark smoke as it curled across the sky. There were screams and sobs that would echo throughout the streets, prayers that went unanswered and the mangled sounds of the dying and wounded. He'd watched as a building exploded in the distance, and some time later had poked a severed arm with the tip of his shoe.)
(There had been less blood than he'd been expecting, but he might have just arrived at the scene too late. He'd have to arrive earlier in the future, before everyone else.)
Oh, yes. Tom didn't need to paint a picture in his mind to know what death's flight looked like as it swept across a city—across a nation. Across a world.
Despicable; they were disgusting. The muggles were naive at best, and suicidal at worst if they truly believed they could escape the self-destruction of the planet. Their actions were idiotic, and would only spiral as the years passed. They had no other choice—they were too foolish. They couldn't help but be as they were.
But the wizards and witches...once the muggles were gone, he could teach them. Show them all the truth—what the world could be, when more than a single thread of wisdom was used to sew the cloak that made up society. He could show them—could lead them.
Yes.
That sounded rather nice.
He mouthed it again.
Vol de mort.
...It felt better as a single word, he decided. There wasn't much difference, but it was there.
Voldemort.
He pushed himself up off the thick mattress and tugged the heavy blankets off of him. There was no reason to stay asleep as of right now, and he hated wasting time.
(Time—he needed more of it, didn't he? There wouldn't be enough—never enough. He would need more. More time. More life.)
(He didn't want to die.)
Voldemort.
A flick of his wand—when had he picked it up?—was enough to adjust his appearance back into something presentable for when classes began, and another gesture rendered him practically invisible.
Voldemort.
His fingers flicked past page after page. Book after book was picked up and set aside. He wandered through the aisles of the restricted section like a man possessed; only half-aware of his movements and his mind a fevered haze.
Voldemort.
Finally, finally, his eyes landed on another line of another page of another book.
This was what he needed, wasn't it. He didn't understand what it said in the slightest, but he knew this was it. Whatever it was.
Voldemort.
His mind cleared for a moment more—just enough for him to see a detailed view of a promising future. The muggles were gone, their filthy bodies having no use outside of the most basic of labours and tasks. Wizards and witches invented and created with a zeal he hadn't seen in a single soul besides his own. And above them, above them all, he ruled. An enshrouded, omnipotent Lord who oversaw his lands and wards.
It was beautiful.
His lips curled into a sweet mockery of a smile, as though he could already taste the power.
Lord Voldemort.
And the clarity was once again replaced with that obsessive heat as his eyes reread the line that would change everything.
'Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction—'
Tom Marvolo Riddle
I am Lord Voldemort.
(It all fit together quite nicely.)